


Wander Where You Shouldn't

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Fondling, Multi, i forgot what was in this lol, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:20:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sans has a bad time
Relationships: W. D. Gaster/Sans
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Wander Where You Shouldn't

**Author's Note:**

> someone asked for a repost so here!! this one is for you! I see and appreciate your support. <3

Sans hadn’t really known how he’d stumbled across this place.

He’d been walking along one of the dimmer paths in Waterfall, listening to the distant dripping of water and the roar of the falls getting farther and farther as he went. He was going to collect Papyrus from Undyne’s because his little brother’s “training” had dragged on a little later than Sans had liked, as per usual. He hoped that she would have given up that farce eventually, but, without fail, any argument he presented to her was rebuffed and the deception continued. He had never liked his brother being taken advantage of, but out all the different words he’d said to Undyne in a million different timelines, she had never listened. So he gave up on it. He gave up on a lot of things.

That train of thought had carried him into this unknown place. He had snapped out of his brief reverie to find himself in an unknown area. Lost in his thoughts as he was, Sans thought he must’ve wandered off the path somehow. Which was in itself rather strange, seeing as he had walked the dim side path a thousand times in the exact same time and circumstances. It’s dark, dark in that way that always charged him with a particular kind of dread.

Anything straying from the routine tended to unsettle him nowadays, promised to bring unpredictability and danger. This, however, is different. It’s the same dread that accompanies the memories and impressions of the one reset he can never remember. Memories of long dead friends and laughter-filled work days. 

There’s a strange rustling behind him and Sans tenses in anticipation of an attack, before spinning around to face the noise. Half the time something new happens it's caused by that awful flower. He can hear it's vile laughter ringing in his ears and can't help but ready his magic for a fight. He's expecting the flower, prepared to rip it to shreds, so when he sees a shape shamble in the dark shadows of the corridor, he's caught off guard, to say the least. He figures he should say something, placate this monster who witnessed the supposedly calm and lazy Sans gearing up for a fight.

"Hey, you shouldn't sneak up on a guy like that. Might've gotten you attacked by a scared fella with a thicker skull," he raps his knuckles against his head for emphasis, expecting laughs. What he doesn't expect is for that vague shape to lunge at him. He flinches, but feels his arm enveloped by a strong grip before he can jerk back. The hand feels like half-melted gummy bears, left in the sun to melt and distort. He whips his head up in alarm, only to stop when he sees the face, or lack of one, of someone he barely remembers. He recognizes the monster as one of his nonexistent friends from that period of his life that never happened. He stares, stricken.

It burbles some approximation of his name at him, nigh incomprehensible. Sans feels tears prick at his eye sockets, he's so happy, his friend's alive, he's alive. Strange and eerie and half-rotted, but alive. His friend's once-furry ears twitch in a happy way that disturbs the glop of gooey flesh they're anchored in. Sans feels repulsion gather in his gut at the sight, but this is his friend, his friend who was gone, who he thought he'd never see again. He doesn't remember his friend's name, he thinks guiltily. Sans must make an expression at the thought because the monster jerks forward to envelop Sans in what must be a hug with a splat, still gurgling. The warmth of his strange flesh feels nice on Sans' bones, gross as his old friend's visage may be. Sans feels an obligation to endure the embrace, as if to make up for his failing memory.

Out of the dark, two others shuffle forward, slow and jilting like the zombies in that human movie he and Papyrus once found in the dump. The zombie comparison stands in other ways, also. They're making strange, primal noises and their skin looks rotted enough to start sloughing off at any moment. They seem more decomposed than his feline friend. Sans doesn't know how to feel. They're alive, but... they're so deformed and seem so mindless, nothing like smart people he used to know, so adept at their trades. Does that count as living? He feels the not-paws of his friend start to caress his ulna, but pays it no kind. After all, they must have been trapped in the dark space between worlds like Gaster is. They must be starved for touch, for a taste of reality, of physicality. Gross as they are, they are his friends, and he can power through his selfish feelings of disgust to give them something as simple as affection.

He can't recall their names, even though he had promised himself to never forget. He'd been so caught up on Gaster for so long, he hadn't truly spared them a thought, had he? He had always been close with his old love, but they were his friends and he should have at least made the attempt to record their existence. So, shamefaced, he decidedly doesn't flinch as they approach and the full extent of their paradox driven decomposition, if it can even be called that, becomes clear. The taller of the two, a brilliant mechanic and a real philosophical fellow, lacks a body. They're nothing but a terrifyingly large mouth, twice Sans' size, and their maw drips with strings of melty flesh like microwaved icing. Their eyes are large and dark like saucers, vacant of anything intelligent, lacking the spark of the person Sans once knew. Sans could feel the hotness of the thing's, no, his friend's, breath whistle through the growing gaps between string of skin oozing like spittle. He flinched and hated himself. He could feel his face-less friend make some strange noise, some half vocalized blurb of his name, he thinks.

The other is small and would look to be the most solid if her flesh didn't look as if it would fall off at the slightest touch, like a butterfly's wing. He could feel the great mouth shift against him as if making room for her to help them surround Sans. She used to help him with reports, cleaning up the spelling of words he wasn't quite used to writing. She was older and had mentored him in small ways, that he never worked up the courage to thank her for. She is tiny, tinier than Sans and the cat and the mouth, but lurches to touch him also, likely feeling the same desire for touch as the others and driven by the echoes of their friendship. Surrounded by their warmth, by the knowledge that they're alive, by the treacherous thoughts that say that this isn't a life, not really, Sans cries. They murmur strange concerned noises and Sans cries even harder, sobbing. 

They start to pet at him, an attempt to sooth, he thinks. He feels warmth on all his bones and it's nice to be held, a pleasant trail of sensation plotting the path of their touches. The mouth rubs against him, but their liquid-like flesh molds against his spine and a drop of drooled flesh splatters on the upper crest of his pelvis and Sans has to choke down a moan. He feels a sharp stab of arousal followed by a deep flash of disgust. Here are his old friends trying to comfort him despite their far more horrible plight and he had the gall to feel something as sick from their touches. He was horrible. He was sick. He forced himself to stay still. 

He endures their petting, hyper-aware of where their bodies touch his. His feline friend pets Sans' head, like he always used to when Sans voiced his stress. It was a soothing gesture specific to cat monsters that never failed to make Sans feel calmer. Only now, now, Sans feels the warmth on his head smear wetness like a tongue and the thought heightens the wretched arousal already stirring in his marrow. His head is starting to feel a little foggy from arousal. The darkness of the cave and the soft dripping of water fade away as his mind starts focusing on other things.

He twitches as his smallest friend wraps her peeling arms around his pelvis in a comforting hug, as high as she can reach. The warmth and shifting of the flesh don't help his predicament. He can see flecks of bloodied flesh on his shorts, with matching spots of exposed red muscle dotting her arms. The sight is unsettling in a visceral way, but. But he feels even hotter. Horribly enough, it's arousing. They're shifting around him, thankfully not noticing his horrid feelings. Sans wonders, wonders if he should just give in. It's not like they would know, right? But you would, says a voice in the back of his head. He ignores the pangs of mortified guilt and tugs down the hem of his shorts on impulse, succumbing to his depravity. Immediately, he feels the batter-like flesh of thr mouth rush to fill in the exposed bone and gaps of his pelvis, to surround him, and he chokes.

"Ah!" he can't help the desperate moan that escapes him as waves of sensation spread through his body. His gross friends, they're really disgusting, aren't they, shift against him in concern and confusion and the motion in and on his pelvis makes him moan even louder. God, he was horrible. He was aroused by his friend's deformity, by the bizarre nature of the encounter. Getting off on a gory mess stuffing his pelvis full, he really was disgusting, wasn't he? He rolled his hips into the mass invading his pelvis and whimpered. 

Gross as he may be, he couldn't deny the rising pleasure in his pelvis as his friends spoke unintelligible condolences, not realizing he was getting off on them, off their suffering. Not understanding jut how sick he was. He bet they wouldn't be so nice if they knew what he was doing; he bet they would recoil in disgust, would shame him, hate him. He remembered he'd had a crush on all of them at some point, borne entirely of respect and admiration. But that had been innocent, not like this. Not like his desperate rutting into the fleshy mass that was his cat friend. The slick slide of melty flesh felt like nothing he could describe. The pressure and pleasure was heavenly and he could feel his bones clench up and tighten at the feeling, his marrow tingling at the excitement.

The appendages tracing over his body added to it, like fake intimacy to complete this disgusting fantasy. The sweet feelings almost peaked when he felt his little friend tighten her arms around his pelvis and rub soothingly, likely mistaking his humping for distress. Her fleshy hands left flakes of skin on his bone and he felt impossibly aroused by the sight. The drool slipping from his largest friend's mouth slipped into his shirt and fell over his sensitive ribs like a waterfall. He gasped at the unexpected shock of pleasure and felt the pressure in his pelvis tighten and tighten and tighten until he was mindlessly fucking himself on his friends' bodies, unabashedly getting off on their hideous forms, loudly moaning as their flesh churned around the edges of his pelvic inlet. He couldn't breathe, it was so good. So, so good. He moaned and writhed as he felt his orgasm wash over him, leaving his bones fizzing with sparks of all encompassing pleasure. He sighed out, long and satisfied, as it faded and died. As the pleasure wore off, though... all those guilty feelings came rushing back.

He'd just gotten off on his poor confused friends. He'd just gotten off on their suffering. This was a new low, even for him, taking out his sick feelings on mindless, pitiful creatures. He was disgusting. He was gross. He deserved to be hated. As he leaned back into their embrace and listened to their sad noises, he cried.


End file.
